


not what I was hoping for

by sciencemyfiction



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Prompt by friend, not exactly happy family, they're working on it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencemyfiction/pseuds/sciencemyfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by theStacksCat: AU, Steve and Bucky made it through WWII together and in the modern day have adopted Clint, who they found after Barney ditched him at the circus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. okay this looks bad

Clint is running, pursued by four angry men, one of whom is wielding a baseball bat, one of whom is twice his size, and one of whom is carrying duct tape. Clint is running, shoeless, through a gravel-covered parkway towards the lower side of town where his house is. Clint is running, with one eye already swollen shut, and he finally sees what he was hoping for-- a low enough hanging branch.

He's always been athletic. Just a thing. He likes doing stuff with his hands and he likes running and jumping and it's really lucky he does because this is going to be a tough one to pull off. The crouch: he feels the individual muscles in his legs screaming at the sudden change of priorities as they bunch up and he hunkers down and pushes off. The leap: he arcs up into the air, hands up for the branch, and fuck but the bark is rough on his palms that's fine it's fine he's fine he clamps them down through the scraping pain and tries not to think of how his hands are gonna look after this. The end result: Clint swings up his feet in a beautiful arc, hooks them on another branch, and the inertia carries him up when he lets go of the first branch. He climbs further up into the tree and he's glad, not for the first time, that they don't live in Manhattan anymore.

The guys below are pissed, obviously, but things are looking up until the branch underneath him cracks, splits off, and takes a bewildered Clint down with it. 

He hears, more than feels, the impact of his shoulders with the pavement. He's concentrating too hard on keeping his head up so it doesn't connect to worry about whether that snapping sound was a part of him breaking or not. The guys are on him in an instant, pinning him in place. Baseball bat guy jabs the end of it into Clint's sternum and suddenly it becomes hard to breathe, to see, he wheezes, "ohfuh" and the second time, he goes out.

When he comes back, the guys have him slung over big guy's shoulder. His hands are duct-taped to his thighs, which bends him at a slightly awkward angle but doesn't quite hogtie him. They've also covered his mouth, but inexpertly, thankfully, so it's peeled enough for him to say something dangerously risky.

He does.

"Guys, seriously, do you think you could hurry it up, I'm gonna be late for di-" Big guy jars Clint on his shoulder, and Clint's stomach feels like it's been popped open. "Aaaawww, stomach," he groans, shutting his eyes and his mouth and telling himself it's still not time to give up, even though he would _really_ like to.

They aren't outside anymore. (Well, of course not, that wouldn't make sense, right?) He feels like it's dark, but maybe that's because his face kind of naturally ends up in Big Guy's side from here. Their footsteps are echoing. This is gonna be where ever Scapelli decided to have them bring him for a final meeting, in all likelihood. If he wants to make it out alive and yes, he does, then he's gonna have to get away now.

Somehow. Even if it means he can't personally take down Scapelli, which he really seriously wants to do.

It's funny how having something to prove makes improvising a really crappy plan suddenly way faster, but Clint doesn't make the rules on these things.

He cranes his head up to at least get a look. Four guys still, plus Scapelli, who's waiting for them over by a car. Oh, this is a parking lot. A mostly empty kinda parking lot, one of those public use towers that's like ten stories high, so he might not have an easy time getting out if they're higher up. But, no. If they wanna kill him here so he can be found, they wanna get away quick, they'll be on the second floor, max. Probably. 

Letting his head hang again, he twists his right hand in its duct-tape bondage. If they suck at the gag part, then maybe there'll be some give he can use to get out of this. He hears, more than feels, the slight ripping sound of the tape slipping off as he slowly tugs his hand free, and has to bite his lip where his head is banging, nose-first, into Big Guy's side so he doesn't blow it saying 'yesss!' out loud. But yesss! They suck at this whole thing. Scapelli is twenty five and thinks he's a big fucking deal, well Clint is eighteen and full of rage and he's got things to atone for. He can take these clowns. (As for the clowns back at the circus maybe not so much.)

Clint is just about to slip his other hand free when Big Guy stops moving, and unceremoniously dumps Clint on the floor next to Scapelli, and now there's a booted foot in his chest, which is way less awesome and get-out-of-able than the shoulder hold had been. So much for biting Big Guy's love handles to get away.

He keeps his cool, though. He even smiles, for a second, before Scapelli pulls out the gun.

Clint is so fucked. He's not gun-proof. He knows people who are, but he's patently not.

"Well, well. Took you a while to get here, Clint," Scapelli sighs, polishing the barrel of his gun as fake-boredly as he can.

"Do you seriously think that's cool?" Clint blurts out, because he is so fucking intimidated and panicking, in spite of his best intentions to be cool and figure out a way to get out of this whole imminent death thing. "Like, I'm just curious because I've seen you do this before, the whole 'oh I'm like a bored Englishman' thing, it really doesn't. Uh, it doesn't work for you?"

"That's because I'm Italian, asshole," Scapelli snarls, and oh, hey, the tip of a gun is against Clint's face and that's when he's supposed to shut up, but nope.

"You're the asshole, asshole," Clint chatters. He's shaking and angry and maybe he looks tough, but probably he looks scared. He realizes his hands are free, but it's not going to be enough on its own. He tries not to think about how he could so easily have asked for help. That was the whole point, not to have to ask. He can do it on his own.

Perhaps fortunately for Clint, Scapelli feels unthreatened by Clint's bravado and doesn't just angrily shoot his gun right away or something fatal like that. He does drag the gun down Clint's jawline before he starts polishing the barrel again, and Clint feels a thrill of exhilarated relief that he wishes he could tell his lizard brain is a _little_ too soon in coming. The other goons fan out, two getting in what Clint is going to assume is the getaway car and one heading off to the elevator with a gun out. Big Guy keeps his boot on Clint's chest.

Scapelli keeps talking. Clint tries to think. "You know, it's one thing, stealing off us. Hit my profits pretty hard, I won't lie, but I might've forgiven you that if you'd stayed the fuck away. Here we are, not six months later, and you _waltz_ into my lab like you still work for me? What the hell happened, Clint? Run out of meth, thought you'd come back and borrow a little more?"

Clint doesn't say shit. His hands are free, he could probably grab Scapelli and push the gun up, get him to shoot Big Guy. Then he could get up, and Scapelli's as scrawny as the people he sells to, and Clint used to be Scapelli's muscle before he worked in the lab, Clint could definitely _take_ Scapelli one on one. He doesn't want to kill anybody, though. Just get the fuck away.

If he can throw Scapelli hard enough, quick enough, then he can run for the wall, hop over it and be outside again. Outside he might be able to find a building he can take cover in, or an alley, something, whatever. Clint's pretty sure that's the best plan he can come up with, and he knows he's gotta do it quick. Scapelli will get mad at Clint for ignoring him, so he does one better.

"I was gonna blow it up, actually. If that matters."

Scapelli's eyes get wide and scary and bingo, Clint, you've got a gun in your face for real this time. "Fucking piece of _shit!_ "

No time to think. Clint's hands snap up, and it takes both of them. He's gotta grab the wrist and the hand and push up and even then, he's only barely clear when it goes off. One thing about point blank gunfire is the noise, which leaves Clint's head ringing like he's the church bells at 6th street. The other thing is the superheated air blasting literally not even quite an inch above his face, and while Big Guy is the one taking the bullet to the foot, the left side of Clint's face feels like it just got set on fire, which is not a good feeling. People are screaming. Clint is definitely one of the people screaming. Or, well, shouting. Screaming? No, he's screaming and Scapelli is screaming and twists his hand and grabs Clint's hair and jams the still-superheated muzzle of the gun into Clint's ear for some fucked up reason and that, that is when Clint breaks Scapelli's wrist, rolls away, and starts running for the wall. He makes it but not without being shot (he's not even sure who did it) in the back, which should probably hurt more than it does. His head is still clanging and he can't really hear if Scapelli or his guys are shouting after him, it doesn't matter, he climbs the little wall and realizes oh, they're on the third floor, and he's already jumped before he makes that realization.

He spends the fall torn between being terrified of how fucking pissed Steve is going to be, and begging fate that it won't kill him, just shatter his legs, because oh, fuck, he doesn't want to die.

And just when he's about to hit the ground someone grabs him out of the fucking air, and the world lurches, and Clint could fucking cry, no, he is crying, because it's fucking Bucky and he didn't want fucking Bucky and Steve getting involved he was trying to prove that they didn't have to fucking do this and some part of him relaxes because this means he's safe and so he really does start crying through grit teeth, snottily and messily and his head is still throbbing and ringing he can't hear his face hurts and fuck, fuck fuck.

Bucky looks at him when they land, not putting him down yet, and he looks serious, which means he's angry.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he mutters, looking like he's seen a ghost, gently helping Clint find his feet, taking him by both shoulders and _shaking_ him before he realizes that Clint's been shot (when Clint makes a weird noise at the pain). "What the hell were you thinking, Clint?"

"I can do this," Clint says, not sure if he's answering or just lost his ability to shut up. It feels like the second one.

"Obviously, you can't."

He's ready to say fuck you because his chest is swarming with conflicting emotions right now but instead he looks back up where he came from, because Steve is probably up there.

He is. The gunfire has stopped. He's jumping down now with Scapelli in tow, and he motions imperiously for Bucky to bring Clint along with him. Because, yes, great. They're going to walk to the police station, apparently. 

And then the police car pulls up, and an ambulance, and Clint should be grateful but he's just confused and angry and scared and he shoves away from Bucky, walks the rest of the way to the ambulance on his own. 

Steve stops him for a second, just steely blue eyes and a hard expression on his face. "We're going to talk, later," he says, in No Nonsense I'm Your Fucking Father voice. 

Clint doesn't have the energy to argue with that. He sullenly approaches the paramedics and allows himself to be guided onto a gurney instead. The paramedics are nice, at least. One of them is about his age, maybe a volunteer, and she starts talking to him immediately once they get him inside the back of the ambulance.

"Wow, so which hurt worse, the burn or the bullet? I probably would recommend not getting bullets in the future, personally."

"It's all shit, pretty much," he agrees, and she laughs which makes him laugh a little, or maybe that's the intravenous drip they set him up with kicking in. It feels like everything's moving really fast. Maybe just he's moving really fast? She asks him something but his head is still ringing and it's hard to concentrate on words and soon enough he finds himself laying facedown on a hospital bed, post-op, alone.

Figures.


	2. what ever happened to class

He can hear the two doctors talking with Steve in the next room. Their sonorous voices make him feel sleepy and calm. "--care will be difficult, so it might be wise to allow him to stay for another few days until it's healed up a bit more." A pause; Steve's voice is just a distant rumble, unclear. He talks very softly for someone whose face is plastered all over the world on posters. Clint still hates that about him. What business has he got talking like that? He should be the kind of person who shouts every thought, boldly declaring every damn thing like it's a sacred speech of the gods of old. He's too busy being angry to hear what else the doctor says, but he's pretty sure they're not going to leave him in the hospital another day. Bucky's never liked hospitals. Steve is only here to pick Clint up and take him home.

Or, maybe to jail, where he probably belongs. It's not like they haven't had good reason to do that before. Now they just have even more good reasons to do that. 

"Clint," Steve says, materializing out of the pain-fogged frustration that is hazing Clint's senses. He's at the side of the bed, where Clint's lying on his stomach, he's on the same side that Clint's head is turned toward. "Hey, buddy."

"Not y'r buddy," Clint mumbles pathetically. He feels useless.

Steve allows that to pass. Steve is such a tolerant jerk. He doesn't react to anything. "Look, the doctors say you can come home, but it's gonna be tough to get around. And since you're a recovering addict, Doctor Chinodya had to discuss the prescription with your counselor and they're gonna have to cut you off a lot sooner than you might like for the pain."

Steve is not supposed to know about the recovering addict part, but Clint's pretty sure Bucky told him, since obviously, he knows now. "Fine."

"It's _not_ fine," Steve says sharply, the first teensy bit of emotion since he showed up outside Clint's hospital room and started checking in with the doctors an hour ago. "but it's not safe for you to be on this stuff in the first place, _doubly_ so because of your apparent history."

There it is, the little pang of _when were you going to tell me, Clint?_ , the _**were** you going to tell me?_ , the hurt, the disappointment, the mistrust, everything that this was supposed to be about Clint putting to rights gone so completely fucking wrong and he's going to blame the sedatives for the fact that tears start welling up in his eyes. He is not going to cry in front of Steve or Bucky, not now that he's not swimming with fear and adrenaline and bone-numbing relief at being saved from almost certain death.

Steve is silent, as if he's run out of things to say. His head is turned away a little, his mouth pulled into a disapproving frown.

"I just meant." What did he even mean? What does he think he means? Fuck this. "I just. I'll deal. I deserve it, right, I'll deal. Okay?" His voice is shaky. Fuck shaky. Clint doesn't want to be shaky, and he definitely doesn't want to fall apart in front of someone else. He bites his lip until he can feel it stinging, and takes as deep a breath as he can with his ribcage bruised and aching under his body weight.

"Clint, no you don't."

"Yeah, I do. I fucked up. I know that." He shuts his eyes because the drugs make sure he doesn't hurt too bad physically, but they really don't do shit for that betrayed look Steve is giving him and Steve is such a fucking asshole. Calm. Forgiving. Fuck him.

"Clint, I know you don't realize how much I get where you're coming from, but I really do get why you did this."

"You're a fucking liar."

"That's funny, coming from you," Steve snaps back, and it's half a joke and it's still that same calm controlled voice and it _hurts_ , and it's too late to take it back, while Clint stifles a broken 'fuckyou' in the pillow and Steve winces audibly, not quite apologizing.

He knows all about Captain America, and about Steve Rogers the scrawny nothing that came first, and he knows all about the fights Steve used to pick because Bucky likes to tell those stories more than anything about himself. Yeah, Clint and Ye Old Loser Steve probably had plenty in common, but even a loser Steve had never been really the kind of fuck-up Clint is. He'd done things you could get arrested for like...defending a widow from a perv, or falsifying his papers to try to join the army and serve his country, or stealing food for poor kids. He'd never been a fucking thief because he was too much of a coward to talk back to the people he was working for, and he'd certainly never done drugs, let alone something as completely un-fucking-forgivable as crystal meth. Steve Rogers would never have let his brother murder someone in the first place, or had to step in to take the heat for him. He would never have stolen money from his ex-boss, or taken a big chunk of crystal with him because he was scared it'd be hard to buy it without tipping off said ex-boss where he was.

"Look, whatever else, you don't deserve to hurt like this, and I mean that. I really do, okay?"

Steve has never given up on anybody he cared about, no matter how much they belong in the trash. Clint's eye and nose and cheek and ear still hurt even through the drugs, so he has to turn his face back out to Steve and admit he's crying. At the risk of having Steve snap at him again, which he knows he totally earned but still isn't ready to deal with, Clint tries for a little more bravado. And he is, fuck, he's still shaky. "So, you're serious, right?"

"I'm always serious," Steve says, and he's warm and has his 'don't worry, everything's going to be fine' face on. "About what?"

His chest is locked up and he's gonna sob this out exactly opposite of how he wants to say it but Clint needs one little good thing, he needs to know that Steve doesn't hate him, he needs an answer so it comes out, inexorable as sunrise, his voice tiny: "I can come home?"

It hurts to cry, not because the tears agitate the burn on his cheek (well, that's a little tiny part of it but) but because his shoulders shake and his chest hurts and everything sucks about it except for the one thing.

Steve, who bless his patriotic heart doesn't touch any of the hurt things, but does find Clint's shoulder and squeeze it. "Of course you can, kiddo. Just as soon as you're ready to pack up. We can go right now."


	3. that's just great

They don't talk in the car on the way home. Clint is too tired between the ordeal of getting checked out of the hospital and the subsequent Olympic level obstacle course involved in getting into the car, which was all kinds of not even remotely fun. He's not sure about Steve's reasoning, since it seems like a prime time to lecture Clint about all the wrongs he did. But, no talking, and eventually Steve puts on some music and Clint doesn't mind. When they finally get home Bucky greets them, effortlessly whisking Clint out of the car before anything crappy can happen.

Bucky is much more parental than Steve is. Like, he gets how to _be_ a parent. Clint asked him once if he had kids back in the day, and he had laughed really fucking hard and said _nah_ , so Clint figures it was just taking care of loser-Steve way back when that had given Bucky the knack. 

Therefore, Bucky is not quite carrying Clint to the house, letting Clint take enough of his own weight that he can figure out how much help he actually needs and adjusting accordingly when he stumbles. He doesn't have that horrible disapproving feeling around him that makes Clint's stomach want to sink guiltily down into his feet, but Bucky isn't ignoring him or uncaring of his return, either. It's hard for Clint to be sure Steve really wanted to let him come home, even after what he said at the hospital. By contrast, though he remembers Bucky looking upset earlier, the Bucky of here and now makes Clint feel missed and wanted. The Bucky of here and now feels glad to see him and is still his dad. Steve just quietly goes about collecting all the stuff that he had to pick up for Clint on the way out of the hospital, lingering at the car like a judge deliberating. 

"Welcome home, Robin Hood. Glad you could make it." 

"I didn't actually give anything to the poor." Every step jars his back a little bit, and the morphine is definitely wearing off because he feels it, blossoming over his whole back in a really ugly bruise that's part bullet wound, part falling-out-of-a-tree. His ear is a sharper pain, but it's not constant, at least. Luckily ears don't have to bend and move like hands do. And fuck, don't get him started on the ground-beef state of his palms. Clint is a mess. 

"In this case, what you stole would have been a shitty thing to give to the poor, so I think it still counts."

"If you say so." 

"I do! You did the world a service. Trust me."

"Uh, okay. Huh." He wonders if Bucky knows how fucking weird he is. Clint is pretty sure Bucky just doesn't acknowledge the world changing around him at all. Steve's stern exterior makes him seem much more immutable, sure, but he also tends to be more aware of simple facts. Like, that stealing drugs from a druglord because you want to do them is never a good thing. And, you know, that there are computers but no hover cars in the future. And that it's 1997, not fucking 1935. The only culture Bucky's picked up is slang. He has it on good authority from Steve that even when they were kids Bucky was a sucker for movies, so that's not actually something new.

"So getting shot, huh? Sucks, don't it." Bucky smirks. Clint isn't up to smirking back, but he bares his teeth in a really weak effort on the grin front.

"You guys heal way too fast to sympathize."

"Hurts the same," Bucky says with a shrug, propping Clint up against the wall by the mail slot while he pushes open the door and reorients them to sidle on inside. "Wanna sit for a while, or sleep for a bunch, or something else?"

Clint feels like sleeping would be a great idea. One of those hospital grade shots of morphine would be pretty nice right about now too, but no. "Can you call Angela?"

"At ten at night?"

"Yes. Yeah. I just-- need to ask her if I should do something or not." He knows Bucky knows, he knows Steve knows now too, but he still feels like dancing around it. He doesn't want to say out loud, 'I better check if it's okay for me to take more morphine, and I trust her judgment more than mine on this.' Maybe he _is_ a big fucking liar.

"Trust me, kid, the magic was in you all along. Angie ain't your Jiminy Cricket, she's your counselor." Bucky really likes Angela, and Clint knows this, but he _doesn't_ like that Clint is one of Angela's clients. When he'd found out he insisted Clint get help, and while she was the best option, the whole having to lie about why she was hanging out with Clint part hadn't been Bucky's cup of tea. Angela's either, for that matter. It's put a lot of strain on their friendship. Probably calling her at odd hours of the night wouldn't help on that front, now that Clint thinks about it. And it occurs to him that Steve knowing means that things are probably strained between Bucky and Steve now too because Steve was almost definitely pissed when he found out. Maybe Clint should ask if he's going to have to find a new counselor. Or a new home. He really doesn't want to do that. 

So since Bucky has a point about it being late, Clint lets it go. He doesn't want to be a pain, or in pain, or just. Okay, he can admit it to himself, if not out loud: he really doesn't want to have to ask Steve if he can have some of the morphine because he is one-hundred-and-ten percent sure that he's going to get the judgmental, so-these-are-your-true-colors look if he does, even though he hurts so much it's getting hard to concentrate again. It's unfair beyond all reason that being shot, burned and beat up hurts more now that he's on the recovery side of things than it did when it first happened.

"You still want me to call her?" Bucky's eyeing him now, trying to catch Clint's attention and get him to look back. They're still lingering just inside the doorway, so Clint takes a couple of steps forward, heading for the couch. They haven't even talked about how he's supposed to sleep like this. He can't lie on his back, lying on his stomach sucks almost as much, it's just. It's shit, basically. 

"Nah, it's fine." 

"All right. So where we headed?" Rather than hover in waiting, Bucky moves towards the kitchen, anticipating the possibility of a food-related answer. 

"Gonna sit on the couch," Clint announces, hobbling over that way while Bucky pulls a glass of water from the little jug he keeps cold in the fridge. Steve's the kind of guy who prefers his water room-temperature, says it's better for the body, doesn't shock the innards (he says it just like that, which might not actually be old fashioned but certainly _sounds_ like it). For the most part, they go along with it because Steve accedes to chilling other beverages just fine, but Bucky and Clint both like their water cold, so the jug is their concession. The room-temperature water comes out of the filter next to the tap and the fancy reverse osmosis filter Steve personally installed when he decided whatever the previous system was didn't work well enough. The jug is one of those cheap gallons you can buy at the gas station. It was Clint's idea. Bucky had just put up with Steve's peculiarities before that.

Case in point: Bucky's a little weird.

Sitting is a hellish process and takes far more out of Clint than he would like, his assorted aches and bruises complaining loudly while he eases himself down. He can't put his back against it like he'd prefer because obviously, but he turns sideways, slipping off his shoes so he won't get 'em on the cushions, and puts his feet up across the rest of the couch. The bruise extends down low enough that he can feel it against the armrest, but the bullet had struck the inside of his left shoulder blade, so that wound and the surgical stuff around it doesn't complain about his new position. He feels dizzy. And pretty confused when he realizes Bucky has made it back over to the living room and is waiting for Clint to be ready. 

"All right, tough guy, do you think you can hold the cup yourself?" Bucky's tone suggests strongly that that is unlikely, but he doesn't dismiss the possibility entirely. 

Clint gives it some thought, but, "No?"

Crouching down, Bucky helps press the cup into Clint's hands, steadying them while he lifts the cup to drink. He feels like he's five again, but Bucky's a way better parent than Clint ever had. He feels about as weak and miserable as you might with the flu. It's the pain or it's the sentimentality, but his eyes are stinging again and he tries to ignore it, focusing on drinking the water and being really grateful for it. "Good kid," Bucky says kindly, with a wink and a smile. Like he's not even angry their secret about the counseling and shit is out. Like everything's okay and he'll make Steve understand, and they're still gonna be a family.

The door closes quietly, and Steve bustles off upstairs to Clint's room without saying anything. It ruins the moment or whatever because Bucky turns to glower after his fellow superhuman, which lets Clint--whose hands are no longer occupied with holding the glass-- scrub at his eyes really quick, and try to get hold of himself. 

"Pain in the ass," Bucky mutters softly in the direction Steve had gone. He turns back to Clint. "More water, or is that enough?"

"More's good."

"Okay, here we go." It's easier to focus on the simple task of making sure the glass doesn't tip too far on each sip than it is to deal with everything else. They work together on it and Clint gets a weird feeling of satisfaction from finishing the whole glass off, like he's really accomplished something. 

"Thanks," Clint says, as Bucky gets back to his feet, starts heading to the kitchen. 

"Please, what's a dad even for?"

Shortly after Bucky disappears into the kitchen, there's a faint smell of melted butter and over that, the strong smell of cod. Clint wrinkles his nose and doesn't say anything, even though seriously, cod is the worst. He's never been much for seafood. His back hurts. He wishes he could just fall asleep but his ear is starting to do this weird throbbing stabbing thing. His hands are oily feeling with salve under the bandages, and he wants to look at them, restlessly, but he doesn't dare mess with the stuff because even stretching his fingers out hurts right now. Onions join the smell of dinner in the air, and Clint wonders if this is for him or for Steve. Bucky never eats after eight, but Steve keeps weird hours. 

"How're you feeling, Clint?" Steve's voice precedes him down the stairs, his footsteps light enough that Clint could almost ignore them. There it is, that kind of measured look like he's waiting to see how many lies Clint will tell when he opens his mouth.

"I'm great," Clint lies. He would hate to disappoint, after all. "I'm good. We're gonna do a serious talk thing, aren't we? I'm ready. Uh, if you are."

From the kitchen, Bucky's surly voice informs them both, "Not without me, so sit down and shut the hell up." Steve half-smiles, looking too tired for his usual fondness, and takes a seat across the coffee table from Clint, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, folding up into the smallest space he can, like he's still uncomfortable being a big muscle guy, even though he's been big a lot longer than he was ever small.

They stare at each other across that not-so-big space. "I talked with Angela earlier," Steve says, soft and gentle, like he's not even angry. 

"I- thought Bucky said to wait--" Clint mumbles, looking awkwardly away. 

"She and the doctors were pretty sure you'd need another dose when we got home, and I think they're right. You don't look good, kiddo." There it is, the Captain America Forgives You smile. Clint doesn't deserve that. He shuts his eyes and hunches his shoulders and if he could take that back he would because it hurts, everything he wants to do right now hurts, clenching his hands into fists is a really fucking awful idea but he can't look at Steve right now, he can't see the I Know You're Like This face and not lose it.

"I'm fine," Clint lies again, and his voice is all tiny and fuck, "I don't need it, I'm fine."

Silence for a moment, except the tiny crackle-pop of butter, fish and onions in the frying pan. Steve sighs very softly, a measured, cautious sigh, and Clint hears him get up but doesn't look, feels him put a very careful, callused, strong warm hand on Clint's shoulder. Clint feels like a little kid. He's fucking eighteen. He hates this. He doesn't shrug the hand off, though.

Not just because it would really hurt to move his shoulder that much, either.

"Clint, this isn't like the other stuff. Okay? You won't heal as quick if you can't rest, and you are definitely in too much pain to rest, right now. I know we have a lot to talk about, and you're right that some of it'll be pretty serious, but it is _okay_ to take this medicine. Angela agreed, your doctors recommended it, and _frankly_ \--"

Steve squeezes Clint's shoulder just a little, a tiny gesture of reassurance. In the kitchen Bucky mutters 'fuck! fuck fuck' and the smell goes from rank cod with delicious onions underneath to slightly burnt rank cod with slightly burnt onions underneath. 

"--I think you'd be a fool to say no to a good thing."

It's not like Clint has resolve of steel or anything, and smelling burnt cod is almost as bad as being in terrible pain, so it doesn't take him too long to look up at Steve and crack. "Okay. Yes, uh. Please?"

Steve reaches over to the table, and Clint is surprised to realize that there's a bottle of pills there. He hadn't heard Steve set them down. He starts to wonder if maybe his hearing is fucked up from the burn. That would kind of take some getting used to. 

Shaking out one of the frankly alarming sized pills, Steve hands it to Clint, who very, very awkwardly gets it into his mouth through a great deal of determination and sheer cussedness. He really doesn't want Steve to have to help him. It's one thing to need help from Bucky, Bucky makes it seem like it's no big deal, but, well. Clint's always got something to prove, with Steve. Short story is, he manages it. Steve re-caps the bottle and sets it back down on the table, giving Clint a warm smile. "Uh, hey, dinner's sorta ready," Bucky calls, and Steve gives Clint a measuring look. 

"Talk later?"

"Yes." Clint glances melodramatically at the kitchen. "And please brush your teeth before we talk."

"I heard that."

"No? What did you hear? I didn't say anything," Clint calls back, while Steve ignores both of them and starts helping Clint to his feet. While he would like to believe he can do this on his own, he realizes that it's a lot less horrible with a little bit of help. 

He does not share this pearl of wisdom with his father.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone here who is annoyed I haven't updated "So this is how it is"-- that's the only other thing on my fic list right now, but things have been rough for several months and I haven't written in a while. This is me trying to get out of that rut, promise.


End file.
